


The Many Faces Of You

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 70's Moustache, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Banter, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Love, M/M, Pining, Praise Kink, Sexy Calendars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale discovers something of Crowley's while clearing out his storage room, and their relationship moves forward faster than either of them expected.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 267
Kudos: 757
Collections: Ineffable First Times, Stayin' Julive - The Tony Month Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write another little thing for Tony month, but then this turned out to be twice the length of the first one. The second part should be up in a few days.

Aziraphale has to admit, the storage room is becoming a problem.

A few too many miracles over the years to increase the space 'just a touch,' has left the originally small room now almost half the size of the actual bookshop. A bit of fudging of physical space here and there is one thing, but the room is on the verge of becoming a pocket dimension, which brings a whole host of new problems with it, and will soon start to affect the shop itself if he isn't careful.

Aziraphale doesn't have Crowley's skill - or recklessness - when it comes to managing small pieces of other-dimensional space in his living areas. So he's faced with two options, to designate another room of the shop as storage room number two, and start filling it accordingly. Or to clean out the original storage room, so that it stops stretching the fabric of space-time. He dislikes both options. But if he caves to adding an extra storage room he knows he'll eventually cave to another, and then another, and then simply use them as an excuse to expand his collection. He already knows exactly what Crowley would say to that, and the precise face he would make beneath his glasses. Aziraphale can picture it clearly enough to feel the quiet judgement of it. 

Cleaning out the storage room it is, he decides, with a squirm of what definitely isn't enthusiasm. He makes some space at the back of the shop, pushing aside a few bookshelves and emptying several tables, so he can unpack boxes without burying himself. Then he heads into the daunting interior of what used to be a simple storage room, but now more closely resembles some sort of dusty, Greek labyrinth.

Four hours into his task, he's already been thoroughly distracted by a selection of forgotten books, unexpected finds and curious objects, and has only done thirty-two minutes of actual sorting. He's simply made himself a hilltop fort surrounded by boxes, with a smaller ring of stacked books creating a moat between himself and the items he wants to sort. He's really not very good at this. Honestly, there has to be some middle ground between his inability to let things go, and Crowley's determination to keep his living space as empty a mausoleum? 

He pulls another box forward with a curious noise. Speaking of which - this one's labelled in Crowley's familiar, spiky handwriting 'Office 1975.'

"Oh, you're not mine. What on earth are you doing in here?" Aziraphale has to think about it for a minute, why would any of Crowley's things be stored in the bookshop? It comes to him eventually. Crowley's building had been having some work done, rooftop extension or rooftop garden, something in that area? He'd found somewhere to store his belongings, but the job for Hell he'd been on at the time had just been finishing up, and he'd needed somewhere to put his stuff from that. Aziraphale had told him to just pop it in the storage room, he could come back and collect it later.

Obviously the both of them had forgotten all about it. Other boxes, cases, and books have been piled on top of the box over the following decades, and there it might have stayed, if not for Aziraphale's determination to reduce his clutter today. Well, at least that's one box effectively 'sorted,' since it doesn't belong to him. Crowley will likely stop in at some point today, he'll leave it out for him, and if the demon doesn't want it he can simply destroy the whole thing. 

Though now that he has the mysterious box settled in front of him, Aziraphale can't help but wonder what's inside.

Crowley probably won't even mind if he has a quick peek. More than once the demon has offered Aziraphale free rein of his living space and his belongings, insisting that he doesn't have anything worth hiding from him. Surely that counts as permission?

He pokes a finger into the square hole, where the sides are neatly locked together, and then very carefully pulls. The box comes open with a puff of dust, cardboard sides flapping apart easily. The interior seems to be something of a jumble, a few boxed wristwatches, a pen, three ashtrays, a stack of envelopes addressed to Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, and a second stack addressed to Miss. Antonia F. Crowley. There's also what looks to be a large calendar for 1976, which Aziraphale pulls out to see better. A muscular man smiles enthusiastically at him from the bright orange cover. He's holding an oversized beach ball, and wearing the most hideous paisley shorts Aziraphale has ever seen. They're very small and _very_ tight.

He's about to put it back in the box, but for some reason he starts skimming back through it instead. The months are all glamour shots of men, with terrible hair and unflattering moustaches, in a variety of softly lit and clearly erotic poses. September has a man lounging by a pool, in what barely counts as a swimming costume. He's been captured half-way through rubbing lotion on himself with one hand, while the other holds some sort of fruit-filled blue drink. His expression is undoubtedly flirtatious, as the white liquid drips and runs across his firm, hairy chest. August has a man in roller-skates and leopard print underwear, spread out on his stomach, as if he'd taken some sort of sexy tumble. And Aziraphale can't help the little huff of laughter.

He flicks on.

July is Crowley.

The edges of the calendar crumple under his suddenly much less careful grip.

Crowley's not even trying to hide. He's stretched out in a lazy, erotic sprawl on burgundy sheets. The deep rust of his hair brushed back, large, seventies moustache above a smirking mouth. His glasses are completely opaque, but Aziraphale thinks he's amused, something in the curve of his eyebrow daring people to look at him. He's almost entirely naked, save for an open, short-sleeved black shirt, and a pair of indecently low-cut underpants. Which cling almost obscenely to every curve. The pattern on them is the black and red of Crowley's own scales, a fact that Aziraphale finds unexpectedly distracting once he notices. One of Crowley's arms is folded, elbow on the bed, hand cupped to hold up the careless toss of his head, the other hand is resting at his hip, fingers spread in such a way as to suggest he could be convinced to slide the underwear down. Or even dip inside it -

"Oh good lord." Aziraphale realises that he'd forgotten to breathe at some point and inhales. 

His friend is beautiful, that's never been a surprise, he's had more than his fair share of attention over the years, and Aziraphale has never felt guilty acknowledging Crowley's attractiveness in his own head. But he's also never been faced with such obvious evidence that Crowley was _desired_. Certainly not in such a flagrant and daring fashion, for the consumption of others. It's a professionally taken picture, the lighting soft and intimate. Crowley's pose is flexible and inviting, so much of him exposed for the viewer's pleasure. His skin looks like it would be warm to the touch, and smooth, save the faint rasp of hair on his chest, and the long lengths of both thighs. His neck looks thin and delicate, if he tipped his head into the pillows his hair would be everywhere, the fire of it against the wine-dark sheets. 

The thought of putting the calendar back occurs to him very briefly, and is promptly dismissed. Instead, Aziraphale snaps it shut, then hurriedly pushes it behind a stack of books he'd been saving for a re-read before he shelved. 

The rest of Crowley's things he carefully packs back into the box, then slides the top back into position, until it looks relatively untouched. In the unlikely event that Crowley asks about the calendar he'll think of something diverting to say. After all, it's just a calendar, Crowley probably doesn't even remember posing for it.

Aziraphale expects the calendar to completely slip his mind, as things often do. But instead the existence of it remains something of a constant distraction. He decides to take it upstairs, lest Crowley somehow chance upon it when he's not paying attention. He's not hiding it, just avoiding potentially embarrassing conversations for them both. He carries it pressed between two large volumes about the history of eleventh century castles. The orange glow of the cover peeking incriminatingly out from between the far more substantial books. 

Crowley has never ventured anywhere near his rarely used bedroom - just the thought of it would have been scandalous before the world nearly ended. Even if Aziraphale does only retire up there for cocoa and the warmth of a thick eiderdown, and only when the Winter makes it thematically appropriate. But it's still his bedroom and - well it was best not to even vaguely suggest anything intimate while they were, to all intents and purposes, playing adversaries.

The fact that they're free now. The fact that Aziraphale could invite Crowley into his bedroom if he wished, and Heaven would have no say in the matter. Aziraphale finds that he's thinking about that far more often of late. Especially with the way Crowley looks at him now, soft and patient, as if they're both waiting for some sort of sign. It can't help but leave Aziraphale with the thought that if he did invite Crowley upstairs - that he might say yes. He's not quite sure why, but that makes it harder somehow.

He slips the calendar behind two stacks of books, and then miracles the whole pile to look like Dickens. Who Crowley had once christened 'a gloomy bastard,' and wanted nothing further to do with.

Aziraphale is back downstairs, having accomplished a very productive forty minute stretch of determined sorting without a single distraction, when Crowley jingles his way in through the locked door. The demon calls for him before the echo of the bell fades, then mutters something which Aziraphale doesn't catch, but assumes is a complaint about something. He can't see Crowley from his position among his boxes but he can feel the familiar ripple of demonic energy, and the faint burnt spices and petrichor smell of him. If someone had told him six thousand years ago how much he would come to associate that smell with every happy memory, and every moment of courage - well he probably would have been terrified by the implications. He could be a terribly slow learner sometimes. Far too stubborn for his own good. 

He lets Crowley wander through the shop on long legs, slowly growing closer to where Aziraphale was now half inside a large box, separating antique carriage clocks from antique silverware. He can hear the tap-tap of snakeskin boots on the floor. Crowley must see the storage room door hanging half-open, because he slips inside with an intrigued noise, drops himself gracefully against the door frame, in a way that's so effortlessly alluring that Aziraphale suspects it's entirely unintentional. 

"There's a word for people who don't throw anything away you know," Crowley offers, with a nod at the dreadfully dusty stack of cigarette cases that Aziraphale is trying to move from the box to the table. Which appears to already be full of clocks and snuff boxes. 

"Oh, how am I supposed to know what I'll need and what I won't?" he argues, annoyed that he has no extra hands to move a stack of books which is quite suddenly also in the way. "Especially when it seems like things are constantly coming back into fashion, 'vintage' that's what they're calling it now. I don't know how you keep it all straight."

"That only applies to clothes - eh, and furniture I guess." Crowley reaches over far enough to pluck a carriage clock from the box Aziraphale's been rummaging in. "Why do you have so many of these?" he asks, perplexed. "They're hideous, people give these for retirements so you only have to look at them for a few years before you can escape into the sweet release of death."

Aziraphale reaches up to take it back. "Don't distract me, I've already wasted hours. Oh, and I'll have you know that I take very good care of my clothes, unlike some people."

"I don't need to take care of my clothes," Crowley reminds him. "Most of them don't exist when I'm not wearing them. And anyway that doesn't mean those Regency trousers are coming back into fashion any time soon." The demon looks far too amused. 

Aziraphale sinks back on his heels. "You never know. Those high-waisted ones did eventually."

Crowley pulls a face, but honestly, he's just cross that he didn't have the presence of mind to save more of his wardrobe. Which Aziraphale will admit to being rather disappointed about. Crowley has always looked stunning, no matter what fashion has dictated at the time. Everything has always looked so stylish on him. Though - no, there was that one period in the fourteenth century. With the pointed shoes and the hose that never stayed up without a miracle. Not to mention the floppy hoods that itched abysmally, and capes dyed in urine. Which ensured that you smelled as bad as you looked. The fourteenth century didn't really do anyone any favours. Not even Crowley. Might explain a part of why he was so grumpy for that century.

"Oh, I found a box of yours." Aziraphale waves towards it. "You must have left it here when your place was being done and forgot to pick it up afterwards."

Crowley makes a curious noise, heads immediately to the small, round table where Aziraphale had left the July 1975 box - now minus one pilfered calendar. Crowley reads the scribbled label and laughs, before jabbing his long fingers in the centre and tugging it open. 

"I remember this. I had to play the new co-worker, and his sister. Not a lot of work to it, truth be told. It was mostly smoking, looking cool on the phone, filing things, and standing around trying not to die of boredom."

Aziraphale hears the click of a pen lid, and the gentle clack of what sounds like two ashtrays knocking together. There's a rustle and a mutter of ' _Antonia...bloody Hell, I wasn't subtle was I_?' Then some more rustling. Aziraphale loudly moves some books, so as to give the impression he's not listening to Crowley's rifling.

"Huh?" Crowley says suddenly. There's the sound of a box being gently tipped, as if to move everything to one side and check underneath. "I could have sworn there was a -"

Aziraphale blinks at him over a book of Greek poetry.

"Missing something?" He forces his expression into something curious and innocent, he hasn't technically done anything wrong after all.

Crowley frowns. "Could have sworn I put a calendar in here. It was a - well, it was a silly thing I did on a whim. I meant to show you at the time, figured you'd get a laugh out of it." He frowns again, and Aziraphale can't help but think he looks genuinely disappointed.

Aziraphale's curious expression threatens to become guilty and apologetic at the edges, so he busies himself stacking books that have no business being together.

Crowley eventually sighs. "Ah, never mind, probably got left behind." He reaches for a bottle he'd left on one of the tables, tips it until the liquid sloshes, amber dark and appealing. "Fancy taking a break for a glass of something?" 

Aziraphale doesn't even have to consider it, he slaps his thighs and gives a brief wriggle of acceptance.

"Why not!"

-

Long after Crowley has gone home, after several pointed but obviously reluctant offers to help him sort out his 'knick-knacks and souvenirs,' Aziraphale has finally made significant progress. He's managed to fill two boxes with items to be given away or sold, and one box with items to be thrown away. It's been much harder than he thought. He's not fond of consigning things to oblivion, especially if they've once been useful, or held some sort of meaning, or if they reminded him of Crowley. He's realising that he has very few things that don't fit the last category. Which has derailed his attempts to put things in the box more than once. It's not as if he can't see Crowley whenever he pleases now. This is, in many ways, a fresh start. He no longer has to make excuses for the things he owns, the things he's kept, or the things he loves. He doesn't have to hide any of them any more.

But he's always had trouble breaking old habits - and this one is the oldest of them all.

All told, his tidying hasn't managed to make much of a dent in the small labyrinth that's actually contained within the room. There are filing cabinets towards the back of the next row, possibly from the thirties or forties, that he can't for the life of him remember putting in the room, let alone what's in them. But he tells himself that small progress is better than no progress at all.

The telephone interrupts his thoughts, and he finds himself frowning over at it. It's long after closing, and he'd put a sign on the door that said he was doing an inventory review. The combination of which he'd hoped would keep botherations to a minimum. Which is why he doesn't hurry over, half-hoping it will ring off before he gets to it. When it doesn't, he lifts the thing with a quiet tut and brings it to his ear. He's already preparing a statement about how they're most definitely closed at this hour, and to call back tomorrow, when he hears a very familiar laugh.

"Hello, angel."

Aziraphale's smiling immediately, and he suspects that Crowley knows it, that it does things to his voice that are impossible to hide.

"Crowley, I thought you were done for the night."

Crowley rolls an apologetic noise around in his throat. "Not my sort of fun really, couldn't watch you swim through two hundred years of dust any longer, probably more than that to be honest. Bet you've had some of that boxed up since the seventeenth century. Don't think I didn't see those book crates filled with straw at the back."

Aziraphale doesn't look in through the open door, where he knows perfectly well that a stack of wooden crates can be seen towards the end of a row of shelves. They're waiting for his attention, like everything else inside.

"There certainly is a lot to go through," he offers, rather than admit to anything. "But I suppose it had to be done eventually. It's been piling up and there's no room."

"Could always add in a pocket dimension?" Crowley suggests, rather predictably, even though he knows Aziraphale disapproves of them, no matter how _convenient_ they are for long-term storage. Which seems entirely unfair, since Crowley doesn't appear to be storing anything.

"Oh, you know I've never liked having those just lurking around."

Crowley tuts. "You're just afraid some tentacular thing from another plane of existence is going to make off with one of your books."

Aziraphale turns a horrified expression on the phone. Well he's certainly not going to entertain the idea now.

"Though I've heard that they pay in hideous and unknowable knowledge," Crowley adds, he seems to think that helps. "You like that sort of thing."

Aziraphale suspects that effectively makes them customers, and he's forced to disapprove on principle.

"No, I've decided to stick to the bounds of the shop, wherever possible."

Crowley's laughing again. "Aziraphale, we both know some of those rooms are already at least four times as big as they should be."

"I did say _wherever possible_ ," Aziraphale allows. "Though it is starting to look like a long night. I'm trying to log everything as I go, and making a point to keep it somewhere within reach. Since I've never been very good about sticking to one cataloguing system, especially not with so many things from different time periods. So many things are in danger of accidentally getting noted down twice. I've yet to work out how to keep the things I've already sorted separate."

"If only you had some sort of handy pocket dimension," Crowley muses.

"You making fun is not helping," Aziraphale says. "I honestly underestimated the scale of the task."

Crowley's vague noise could be sympathy, if Aziraphale was feeling generous.

"At least you're used to pulling an all-nighter." That's clearly meant to be encouraging. It's been a long-standing tease between them. Crowley is the one who sleeps. Aziraphale is the one who never developed a habit for it, though he certainly never 'gets up to stuff' at night, as Crowley has often accused him of. "And you've always been good at remembering stuff when you need it, fantastic memory if you jostle it a bit. You always remember all the little details, dates and things. What was the date on that calendar in the box again?"

"1976," Aziraphale says, without really thinking about it. Then realises he should absolutely have thought about it, because he didn't even notice that was a trap until he was neck deep in it. 

"That was it." Crowley's tone is unfairly triumphant and far too amused. He can be an infuriatingly clever fiend sometimes.

"I mean - of course - that it seems a reasonable date for a new calendar to have on it," Aziraphale adds, though he's aware that it's far too late, and he doesn't even have the moral high ground to be annoyed about it. "It's clearly no longer in the box, I must have seen the cover somewhere."

"Don't try that with me. I knew you took it, you dirty little snoop."

Aziraphale's face does something shocked and offended, which he realises is currently wasted on the telephone receiver.

"I did not snoop. It was - I was curious, I could see inside and I felt duty bound to make sure there were no demonic trifles inside." Even as he says it he realises how ridiculous that sounds.

"Demonic trifles?" Crowley's voice is annoyed but he's still laughing. "When have you ever known me to have demonic trifles? I've never had _demonic trifles_. Where did you even hear that term? If Hell is infusing an object with occult power it's going to be significantly more than a bloody trifle. Not the sort of thing you'd toss in a cardboard box and forget about."

"Oh, now I'm thinking about trifle," Aziraphale complains, much to Crowley's obvious amusement. "I'm blaming you for that one. Also, not strictly true, there was that cursed set of opera glasses you bought. The broken ones."

Crowley grunts acknowledgement. "Ugh, forgot about those, showed you what was going on in the third circle at exactly three in the afternoon, unpleasant if you don't have a strong stomach. They weren't strictly my fault though, they turned up in that antique shop we found because you wanted - anyway, stop trying to wriggle out of it. You stole my calendar."

Aziraphale is quite sure Crowley has already forgiven him, judging by the amused tone of his voice. But he still feels compelled to mount some sort of defence, old habits and all that.

"I didn't steal it, I was looking at it and I hadn't finished looking at it, that's all. I meant to return it to you later." He frowns when he realises he will now definitely have to return the thing to Crowley. Which he hadn't been intending to do, mostly because he'd expected the thing wouldn't be missed.

"How long does it take to flick through a calendar of erotically posed men?" Crowley wonders. Which startles Aziraphale into a laugh. Because it's true isn't it, that is rather telling.

"What were you doing in it anyway?" he counters.

"Erotically posing, obviously," Crowley says immediately, because of course he's not going to be embarrassed.

For the life of him Aziraphale can't think of anything to say to that, and it's very frustrating.

"Well, not me exactly," Crowley continues. "I was going by Tony at the time, working up a bit of a reputation. Tony didn't mind a bit of erotic posing to get the job done. Tony didn't mind doing a lot of things."

Aziraphale squeezes the phone until it gives a rather incriminating squeak. He opens his mouth, but then can't quite manage to find a way to dismiss Crowley's suggestive nostalgia. He finds instead that he wishes he was daring enough to tentatively encourage it. That he could be the sort of person, just this once, who could do that.

Perhaps he leaves some of his turmoil in the silence, and after six thousand years Crowley knows him well enough to feel the shape of it.

"If you - ah - wanted me to recreate the thing I could?" It's a quiet question, offered slowly into the warmth of their conversation. It's clear enough that Crowley means it genuinely, but still casual enough to be dismissed as a joke, if Aziraphale wants to.

But the offer is there, in the open.

Aziraphale had rather assumed that this new dance of theirs was going to continue for a while. Though with both of them understanding that it could finally lead somewhere this time, if they wanted it to. Since Crowley's feelings for him had never been a secret, or if they had, then it had been a terrible one that he gave away constantly. Aziraphale, for all that he'd had to bury a great deal of his affection, for all that he'd been terrified of it on the worst of days, he loved Crowley, had loved him for centuries, with everything he was. Surely his clever demon had to know that? 

But neither of them had yet been brave enough to take the last step. After they'd beaten impossible odds and found themself free, pushing for any more than that had seemed as if it might be too much weight on their precarious new normal together. Aziraphale had imagined that when one of them finally moved forward it would follow a certain pattern - one of them reaching out to grasp the other's hand again, or leaning in for a kiss during a huddle in inclement weather. Or perhaps an embrace, in the dark space between bookshelves, when no one was looking. All of which would eventually lead to rather more - ah - physical activities.

This is something entirely different though, this is something so undeniably suggestive that Aziraphale finds himself making a soft noise that travels down the phone like a sigh. They've been waiting for so long, everything always secret and furtive and subtle. They've always had to watch, and plan, and fear every time they wanted to be together. They've wasted so much time already, and the thought of simply letting themselves recklessly stumble their way into physical intimacy does hold a certain appeal.

"Are you offering to squeeze yourself into an outdated fashion?" Aziraphale asks, in what he hopes is a teasing sort of tone. "I was always led to believe you'd rather be discorporated."

Crowley's surprised into a laugh, as if he hadn't expected Aziraphale to meet him in the middle so quickly. It does feel very daring of him. He finds that he rather likes it. 

"Hmm, think I remember what the hair looked like, still have the shirt somewhere, and the pants - well, they weren't actually pants."

Oh good lord. Aziraphale's brief but thorough appreciation of the picture in question was clearly not thorough enough. He can't stop a sound from escaping his throat, something breathy and incriminating. The silence from the other end is patient, Crowley doesn't press, he doesn't push, he never has done. He simply offers whatever Aziraphale might desire and allows him to be as brave as he likes. But that doesn't mean there isn't something hopeful about the silence, something wanting. Aziraphale finds himself unwilling to disappoint it.

"How inventive of you. Almost feels like cheating."

Crowley's voice is closer, like he'd tucked himself in somewhere quiet to hear him better. The conversation suddenly much more important.

"Burgundy sheets, seventies moustache, no questions asked. I could just - I could wait for you, if you'd like, angel?"

Aziraphale finds himself drawing a steadying breath, at the thought of it, the thought of Crowley dressing himself as he had on that glossy page and stretching himself out on his own bed, just for Aziraphale. That unnecessarily erotic pose that seemed to be quietly mocking but was also undeniably enticing. Not to mention the unspoken but obvious suggestion that Aziraphale would be permitted to touch him, to put his hands on him - to kiss him, if he wanted. He likes to think Crowley wants to be kissed.

"Is that something you would like?" Aziraphale can't help how curious, or how hopeful he sounds. 

They've gone centuries without ever openly admitting that they might - that they might desire each other. But there's been a thousand moments, a thousand looks, and a few nights where a drunken demon has abandoned him for a cold night, after they'd swayed a bit too close. A few awkward stumbles up to get more wine, or snacks, after Aziraphale had inhaled the scent of him through his clothes and realised that it would take barely a tip of head for them to be kissing. Aziraphale has felt Crowley want him. For all that he'd tried to hide it. He wonders if Crowley had felt him wanting back?

"Would you like me to come to you?" he asks, in one breath, before he loses his nerve.

Crowley's reaction to the question is a long, hissing sigh, quickly stifled for an even less coherent throat clearing.

"Aziraphale -" he manages, on the third try, as if he doesn't know what to do with Aziraphale asking him what he wants, doesn't know what to say, because he'd only planned for Aziraphale to tell him what he needed from him. They are teetering so close to the edge, and he wants Crowley to come with him, every step of the way. 

"You have to tell me," Aziraphale says quietly. "Please, I can't - I can't unless you tell me, Crowley." There's been rather too much of what Aziraphale wanted, over the years. And not enough of what Crowley needs.

"Yes." Crowley's voice is low and honest, all the tease gone from it. "I want you to come."

Aziraphale hadn't realised how much he needed to hear that until it exists in the world.

"I'll need to lock up." He can hear the pounding of his own heartbeat, and he tells it quite firmly that he'll not put up with such behaviour. He has a demon waiting for him, and he refuses to be late.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley's flat is the same as Aziraphale remembers, a not particularly inviting grey box, with the occasional piece of art displayed in a way that draws the eye but doesn't encroach on the space. What's different this time is the low sound of what Aziraphale supposes is seventies bebop - or disco, as most songs from the era seem to have been christened. He doesn't need to be told that it's coming from Crowley's bedroom. 

Aziraphale heads there, with the wine he'd brought for the occasion - it seemed like an occasion, or perhaps a celebration? Though he thinks that might be a bit of an exaggeration? His experience in the area is limited, but wine seemed appropriate. Part of him had still needed an excuse for coming, other than simply the offer of - he doesn't quite know what he'd call it. Intimacy? Experimentation? Or simply spending time with a lover?

The open design of Crowley's bedroom reveals so much before Aziraphale can cross the threshold. The bed has been turned to face the door, and Crowley has indeed made a display of himself. An almost perfect recreation of July's picture in the calendar. The demon has adopted the same pose, on the same burgundy sheets. His long legs are stretched down the bed, one of them drawn up slightly to better display the black and red underwear, pulled tight over the shape of his genitals - underwear that Aziraphale now knows isn't underwear at all, but some approximation made by a covering of Crowley's own scales. One hand is even draped casually over his narrow hip, long fingers pressed to the skin. A line of hair starts where the fake briefs end, widening gradually until it reaches Crowley's chest, where it spreads out and becomes something more generous. He's wearing the same short-sleeved shirt, flung casually open, the same opaque glasses with silver trim, and the same amused expression.

Oh. Aziraphale was not prepared at all for this. Seeing it in the flesh is very different to seeing it on a page.

"Hey, angel." Crowley's mouth stretches in a moustache-fuelled smile that brings back strange memories. 

Aziraphale had seen Crowley, very briefly, when he looked like this, on a windswept visit to the shop, carrying a box bound for the storage room. And there'd been one meeting in the park, a few years later, to compare notes. But it had been too soon after - after their meeting in the sixties, and there was a distance between them. Aziraphale had never seen this version of his demon smile, had never been teased by him, never felt the slow orbit of him, as he always had in the past. 

"Well, what do you think, does it meet with your approval?" Crowley sounds genuinely curious, and also a touch nervous. Which does a lot to sooth Aziraphale's own nerves. He moves to put the wine on the bedside table, though he finds it very difficult to tear his gaze from Crowley, the bottle judders for a second when he sets it down on a key. 

"You look very lovely," Aziraphale tells him, through a strangely dry throat. He blames it on his corporation's excitement when he dares to reach out, to touch the drift of long, red hair that covers Crowley's ear. A knuckle just barely brushing the warmth of his face. "I didn't see you much like this."

"Seventies was busy," Crowley explains, soft like he'd missed him as well. "And when we spoke in the sixties we didn't exactly leave it - well, conversation for another time I suppose."

Aziraphale certainly hasn't seen this much of Crowley for a long time. The spare lines of him, dusted with more hair than you'd expect from a snake. The slender length of his limbs with their hard, inviting curves and strange fragility. Aziraphale finds himself watching the way Crowley's legs shifts together, thighs so very bare and exposed, the ways his stomach pulls in and his chest expands with every breath. It all makes him feel appealingly warm and alive, wholly present in his skin, in the way they were never supposed to be. 

"You can touch me if you want." Crowley's eyes drift to the hand Aziraphale hasn't quite managed to put down.

"Should we, do you think?" Aziraphale can't resist a smile, though the thought of it is as exciting as it is daunting. "Very daring of us." Six thousand years of stamping down on every desire to reach out, to touch, to grasp a hand or brush a stray lock of hair behind an ear, to adjust a collar or simply lean into the smoky, serpentine warmth of him. It seems an overwhelming task to try and forget all of that? To suddenly replace it with a world where Aziraphale can reach out and touch Crowley whenever he wants, for any reason at all. 

But he wants to, oh, he wants to very much. Now there are no rules in place, no punishment waiting for them if they're discovered like this. Though Aziraphale doesn't think Crowley ever cared, he thinks if he'd asked, if he'd given the slightest indication that he wanted it at any point in their long history - he thinks Crowley would have kissed him. He would have taken the risk, he would have let Hell punish him for it. Which is one of the reasons Aziraphale didn't, that he couldn't have done. But he can't help but think about how much time they've wasted, waiting for no one to be watching, waiting for the right moment, waiting for the other to do something - say something. It all feels very silly of them suddenly.

"I think we've earned a bit of daring." Crowley lifts the hand that had gone loose and lazy at his waist, catches Aziraphale's hand before he can draw it away completely and turns it, lays a kiss on his palm that's so gentle and so affectionate, for all its bristly, ticklish nature, that Aziraphale can't resist the breathless sigh of happiness, or the smile that follows it. He's feeling more than a touch overwhelmed, but sweetly so, in a way he wouldn't change. It's Crowley, after all, the only person who's always been there when he needed him, who's always shown up to save him, even from his own foolish mistakes. The only person who's loved him, even at his most stubborn and obstinate and ridiculous. Even when he was terrified, and stupid...and cruel.

Crowley deserves to have what he wants too.

"What would you like me to do?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley looks at him over his trapped fingers. "Ah, no, this was your guilty secret, angel. You decide what you want." He gives Aziraphale's hand a slow, reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, you can't shock me, and if I don't like something then I'll let you know, I promise." His smiles stretches out, excited and hopeful, and maybe just a tiny bit nervous. 

It seems like such a reckless gift, to allow Aziraphale to touch as he sees fit, to follow his desires wherever they might take him. When even he doesn't know the breadth of them. But he can't resist a smile at the trust behind the words, at the willingness to take Aziraphale with him, anywhere he wants to go. 

Crowley lifts a hand and snaps, and somewhere not too far away the music changes. Still era-appropriate, Aziraphale suspects, judging by Crowley's amused expression, but it's softer, slower, the vocals less aggressive. It has something of a romantic feel to it, and Aziraphale chooses to make no comment on it, though he's still touched.

"Not so much a guilty secret as something a little - ah - overdue," he admits, with a hint of apology. Though he suspects Crowley isn't going to let him take the blame for their rather long and frustrated courtship. He's proven right when something in the demon's face softens at the words, as if he doesn't regret a single moment of their history together. That, like Aziraphale, he's grateful that it brought them to this moment, left them free, and together, and currently flirting ridiculously with each other. Like a pair of lovestruck idiots. 

Aziraphale is enjoying it immensely.

"Why don't you sit on the bed? That's always a good start." Crowley pats the sheets. 

"That is how it normally goes I suppose." Aziraphale feels daring enough to slip off his coat and hang it carefully on the rack that he hadn't noticed before, a sturdy thing that he suspects was created just for him. Crowley waits for him, still half in his calendar pose by the pillows. 

"The picture of you in the calendar was very flattering." Aziraphale thinks he must know that, must have realised by now how much Aziraphale appreciated his unexpected find - the fiend had twigged fairly quickly that he'd hidden it away after all. But he's missed so many opportunities through the ages to tell Crowley how lovely he is. He has to start somewhere. "Such a captivating air of confidence. I'm sure 1976 thought the same."

Crowley laughs. "Ah, I think there were only 500 copies made."

Aziraphale settles himself on the bed, and he finds that's it's surprisingly easy to lean over, to give in to the urge to dip low and press his mouth to Crowley's. It's barely hard enough to crush his moustache, such a gentle connection. Crowley tastes like brandy - for courage perhaps - and he makes a quiet, surprised noise under the kiss, as if he'd been hoping for exactly this, but perhaps not quite so quickly. Aziraphale suspects there would have been wine and more flirting first. It probably would have been very nice. But he's been thinking about kissing the demon for such a long time, and he finds it surprisingly easy to skip a few steps. 

He breaks away, sighs against Crowley's mouth. "Kiss me back."

There's a burst of startled air, and then Crowley is threading fingers through his hair, drawing him in so he can kiss him properly. It feels like a first kiss, the exquisite, unexpected, excitement of it. The first touch of something he'd been yearning for, but without any real hope. Aziraphale loves every moment of it. The way they're unfamiliar with each other, like they haven't been for centuries, a bit clumsy when their mouths open, but even that feels sublime. The hurried newness of it, the way Crowley gives a sighing moan into his mouth, fingers digging deeper into his hair and sending it into obvious disarray. Aziraphale will let him, of course, there's very little he wouldn't allow Crowley.

He has known this demon since the beginning of the world, and now he knows what his mouth tastes like. 

There's a brief break to tug the silver-framed glasses free and toss them aside, and to slip Aziraphale's shoes and socks off. Before Crowley is slithering upright to get closer, kissing the corner of Aziraphale's mouth, the curve of his lower lip, the edge of his cheek, to his laughing, delighted amusement. Crowley prickles unexpectedly with every brush of mouth and press of lips, and he wouldn't change it for the world.

There are fingers drifting in the hair at the back of his neck, dragging it back and forth in a wave of sensation. 

"Angel, can I take off your bow tie?"

"You may take off anything that you like," Aziraphale tells him, honest and delighted. "Please don't feel inclined to stop."

Crowley's throat flexes, squeezes out a sound, and then his hands are carefully pulling open the strip of tartan fabric at Aziraphale's neck, dragging it from beneath his collar.

"I think I'll allow my clothes to end up on the floor, just this once," Aziraphale decides. "It seems thematically appropriate." His clothes have never been scattered on the floor of a lover's bedroom before.

Crowley's mouth curves at the edge, moustache terribly amused. Though there's a breathless sort of surprise to his noise of agreement. Aziraphale lays a hand on the warm plane of Crowley's stomach, feeling the muscles jump and contract. The skin is warm and it's almost impossible not to spread his fingers, to follow the smooth curve of his waist, the ladder of his ribs, to catch at the sides of his chest and feel them expand under his palms. He's never touched Crowley this much, which he thinks makes perfect sense at this moment, because if he had then he's not sure he ever would have stopped. The demon is so different to him, his body is all long lines, tight curves and angles. By the time he's explored all the ones he can see, the hands undoing his shirt buttons are shaking a little.

"Would you like me to assist?" he asks, the words weren't supposed to be so obviously teasing, but Crowley doesn't seem to mind.

"No." He kisses him again, shushing Aziraphale's laughter. "Don't you dare. Never undone you before, but thought about it a thousand times, m'enjoying it. Feel free to keep touching me though, m'enjoying that too. You have no idea."

"You are lovely," Aziraphale tells him, and does as he's bid. "I've never had the opportunity to touch you before. Though sometimes - watching you move - I'd think about how you were made." His hand slides across Crowley's chest, thumb separating to curiously drift over a nipple. The resulting shudder and hiss is unexpected, and he feels duty bound to repeat the experiment, to see if the results are consistent. "I'd think about touching you, to see what you felt like."

"Fuck, Aziraphale." Crowley's hands fist briefly in his shirt, before he smooths it back down on a whine. Though he's eager to kiss Aziraphale again, perhaps a bit too eager, because an enthusiastic push almost has them both tumbling off the bed. They have to twist in the sheets, laughing against each other at their reckless moment of imbalance. Crowley leans down for a gentler kiss, that tastes of apology - entirely unnecessary but sweet nonetheless. The demon's hands finally separate both sides of Aziraphale's waistcoat and shirt. He pauses for a moment, with the edges of material bunched in his grip, as if he can't convince himself to slide beneath. It seems entirely unfair, since Aziraphale's hands are currently smoothing and stroking his body in a way that might be classed as greedy. 

Crowley seems to agree, because his hands slowly dip under the pale blue cotton, finally touch his skin - and they're so very warm. They slide almost reverently across his stomach and waist, before following the parted sides of material upwards, to find where Aziraphale's chest swells softly, fingers moving curiously over the small, tight peaks of his nipples, nails dragging through snowy hair. Which is very enjoyable, but not nearly so affecting as his own touch to Crowley's had been.

"Hmm, not as sensitive as yours I'm afraid." It seems an odd thing to apologise for it. Though Crowley doesn't seem disappointed, on the contrary he seems overjoyed to be learning the hidden secrets of Aziraphale's body. His long fingers sliding up to curl around the back of Aziraphale's neck, drawing them together.

"Where are you sensitive, angel?" Crowley asks curiously.

The thought of him investigating every part of Aziraphale to discover the answer is a sudden, visceral thrill. The demon slowly exploring his body, considering how Aziraphale moves under every touch, how he reacts to every stroke. Which patches of skin makes him moan and shiver, which leave him gasping and pressing into Crowley's hands.

"Oh, I'm afraid you're going to have to put the work in and find out," Aziraphale says, as though it might be a terrible hardship. 

Crowley's eyebrows lift, mouth dropping open at Aziraphale's unexpected brazenness. "Oh, angel, that's a challenge if I've ever heard one." The shirt and waistcoat are pushed over his shoulders, and Crowley is rolling them, leaving Aziraphale laughing a protest as he's pressed firmly into the sheets. "When have you ever known me to back down from a challenge, hmm?"

"When it cuts into perfectly good napping time," Aziraphale points out. Which is something Crowley himself has voiced more than once. 

"Lies," Crowley sputters, and Aziraphale can't resist reaching up to stroke the moustache, as it stretches above his upper lip. Crowley catches his hand, kisses the tips of his fingers. Such a strange, prickly sensation, though like everything in this moment it _thrills_ him. Every part of Crowley he's never laid his fingers on, never tested the softness of, never dared to grasp.

"This really shouldn't be so compelling," Aziraphale tells him. Which is more honesty than he intended, but if there's any time for brutal honesty then he thinks it's here and now. Crowley hasn't given back his hand yet, and Aziraphale finds he isn't in a hurry to demand it. He likes the way the demon's thumb is drifting back and forth across his palm. 

Both of them, now they're finally touching, seem reluctant to let go.

"Shall I get rid of it?" Crowley asks, expression patient and curious. The question seemingly genuine.

"Don't you dare!" Aziraphale can't help but laugh at how quickly the protest bursts free. "It makes you look deliciously cheap."

Crowley clearly wants to look offended but he's too busy laughing with him.

"I don't know why I put up with you, nothing but insults and slander." He drops his hands to slowly work on the neat button and zip of Aziraphale's trousers, yellow eyes catching his own, to check whether Aziraphale is still happy to continue. He is, of course he is. "This zip is an anachronism you know."

"Oh shush," Aziraphale tells him, as if he's not perfectly aware of that. But he obediently lifts his hips to let Crowley draw the material down his legs and then carelessly fling his trousers off the side of the bed. 

There's a moment where the demon pauses, clearly expecting a protest at such careless disregard for his clothes.

"Underwear too, if you like," Aziraphale encourages instead. He finds that he suddenly wants nothing more than for them to be naked together.

Crowley leans in and kisses the soft muscle of his chest, with a scratchy drag of moustache hair and the slightest flare of warm breath from his mouth. Long hands slide inside sensible cotton, and Crowley's head tips back far enough that he can look up at him.

"You sure? We can stop here?"

Aziraphale nods, nudges Crowley with a knee to reassure him that he's happy to be stripped. He gives a quiet, satisfied hum when his underwear is slowly drawn down his legs. His plump cock, already mostly erect, bobs briefly as his thighs shift to help the removal, and he doesn't miss the way Crowley watches, lips parted.

"There we are." Aziraphale is reminded suddenly of bumping into Crowley at the public baths in Rome. The demon had gone on an angry tirade about the state of the roads, though his vitriol had been mostly directed towards a tray of grapes rather than Aziraphale himself, who'd been oiled and perfumed and quite naked after his dip. Aziraphale had looked his fill, of course, since he had far more eyes in other planes of existence. Crowley would likely be shocked if he knew how explicit Aziraphale's memory of that day was. "It's been a while since we've been naked together."

"One thousand eight hundred and seventy years," Crowley offers, then looks a little embarrassed over his moustache. As if Aziraphale isn't going to be ridiculously touched that he'd remembered. Most other demons and angels wore their corporations like clothes. But Aziraphale has filled every inch of his own, he'd experienced every human sense through it, he'd laughed in it, and wept in it, taught it to experience pleasure, and felt unexpected pain. He'd fed it, and clothed it, wounded it and cared for it, for thousands of years. It was as much his own as anything ever would be. When Crowley admires it, it warms something inside him.

Crowley spends a moment just looking at him, before he slides in to straddle one thigh, the sweep of his long hands moving slowly from hips to chest. Aziraphale shivers pleasantly under the stroking, his skin suddenly wonderfully alive.

"You're beautiful, angel, you always have been." The words are addressed to the skin Crowley's touching, as if he can't say it any other way. To the softness of Aziraphale stomach, the muscle that covers his ribs, and the solid curves of his shoulders. "I would have told you a thousand times if you'd let me. Would have told you at the baths, would have told you when you were in full plate armour, or the most ridiculously expensive silks, or in those stupid hose that used to grip your calves and thighs like they were in love." Crowley laughs. "Those things were fashionable for what felt like forever." Crowley's eyes briefly flick up to meet his own, wide and yellow. Though there's a frown between them. "I would have told you in Eden when you smiled at me for the first time. You're beautiful, all the time, you have been since the beginning."

Aziraphale finds that he has no air to form a reply. It's been a very long time since anyone had called him beautiful, and that was always with the understanding that it was something he should be, something he was designed to be, something he should strive towards. It was never like this, never quiet and urgent and desperate. As if it mattered that he believed it, that he really _knew_. Aziraphale knows that Crowley loves him, he can't help but know. He also knows how hard it is for any one language to encompass all of the things they've been to each other. How impossible it feels just to try.

Six thousand years and Crowley still surprises him. He's so much braver than he gives himself credit for. Though Aziraphale suspects he would call it reckless stupidity instead. But he's been alive long enough to know that sometimes they're one and the same.

"We don't have to do this like humans, if you don't want to," Crowley offers, as if he'd read Aziraphale's distraction as hesitation. "We can just spend time here like this. Have an intimate little nap together with our clothes off, if that makes you happy." His head tips to one side, like the thought amuses him. "That would be enough for me, this is more than enough already, never thought we'd ever get this far, to be honest." Crowley's hands have gentled on his skin, the slow exploration easily slipping into a hold. His eyes are curious and patient, and Aziraphale knows that it truly won't matter to him. That Crowley will accept any form that their relationship takes, and still stay, always.

Oh, if Aziraphale hadn't been hopelessly in love already he would be doomed in this moment. He tugs Crowley in, curls an arm around him and feels their skin warm to the same temperature. He tilts his head so the demon can leave kisses under the line of his jaw, while he pushes the barely-clinging shirt off his shoulders. He ejects it from the bed entirely, with a careless toss, and indulges in the rounded curves of his shoulder and the slender bareness of his neck for a while. The permission to touch him is still very new, but Crowley is such a well-loved thing that the moment is strangely devoid of uncertainty or nervousness. There's just delight, and a low-burning hunger for more.

"I was quite looking forward to what happens with the underwear that's not underwear," Aziraphale admits curiously. "How does that come off exactly? You must show me."

There's a breathy, hot sound of amusement pressed to the skin of his neck. Crowley threads their legs together and Aziraphale feels a strange, curious ripple, chilled smoothness becoming warmth, and then there's a press of solid cock to his bare thigh. It's already leaving tacky lines on the skin, beading wetly in the hair there. Crowley leans back until he can see Aziraphale's face.

"There, happy."

He's very happy, though he's now fighting a strong urge to slip a hand down and touch the demanding push of it, for the very first time. He's eager to feel the softness of the skin moving on it, and he wants very much to please Crowley with his touch. But Aziraphale suspects that working up to it will make it all the more satisfying. 

He smooths his hands over the narrow curve of Crowley's bare hips instead, fingers drifting over the small curve of his behind, so deliciously naked and squeezable. He tests as much, which gets him an affronted complaint, muffled in his skin - though it's followed by a softly murmured warning that Crowley's going to return the favour once he gets a hand on him, to Aziraphale's surprised approval. Crowley seems torn between his exploration of Aziraphale's body and Aziraphale's exploration of his own, every few moments he'll hiss quietly and bend to kiss Aziraphale's bare chest, throat, or shoulder, accuse him of being an impossible, beautiful distraction.

"Can you put scales anywhere you like?" Aziraphale asks curiously.

"Eh, pretty much." Crowley presses down into him, giving a quiet moan when Aziraphale draws him in tighter, thigh pressing up into the sliding nudge of his erection. Which gets him a reflexive push - and then sharp fingers at his waist that seem to be pleading with him to stop, that it's too much, too fast, too soon. "Why do you have a request?" he asks breathlessly. The thought seems to amuse him.

Aziraphale laughs and shakes his head. "No, I just found myself wondering." His hands are still sliding from Crowley's slender waist to the pert curve of his arse, which feels perfect in his hands, the way it quivers under the attention is fascinating, as is the way it tightens when he pulls. Though Crowley gives a soft, warning noise after he does it a few times, lifting himself a touch to stop the way he'd been rocking slowly into Aziraphale's solid thigh.

"Ngk, give me a second."

"I feel like I should be flattered." Aziraphale means it to tease but Crowley gives a low hiss, teeth dug into his lip.

"N'don't," he protests. "I've wanted to touch you for six thousand years. I didn't expect - I just need a moment."

Aziraphale is terribly curious what he found so unexpected. But finds that what he most wants is to reassure Crowley that nothing he does here could ever disappoint him.

"You realise that neither of us are bound by the same rules as humanity when it comes to our physical bodies," Aziraphale reminds him. He pushes the long strands of Crowley's hair back, tugs him down low enough to kiss again. "I would have no objection at all if you spent your pleasure all over my thighs right now."

"Oh, fuck, don't - don't, you're going to kill me," Crowley says weakly. He squirms a hand down to grip himself and squeezes sharply. "I want to - fuck - want to do something together not come all over you like I've never done this before."

"Everything we do here is together." Aziraphale gathers him in tightly, kisses the long stretch of his throat, and the bristly length of his mouth. "We haven't done this before, everything is the first time between us, but it won't be the last time, assuming the both of us like it -"

Crowley gives a breathless laugh.

"- which I don't expect is too much of a worry."

Crowley can't seem to stay away from his mouth for long, as if he still can't believe that he's allowed, and is taking his fill while he can.. He sinks into Aziraphale's body, indulging himself with hard presses and soft pushes, and Aziraphale finds himself unable to do much more than accept it all with breathy laughter and hums of approval. He's even getting used to the prickling crush of the moustache, and the drift of Crowley's longer hair as it tickles across his skin. This might be the first time he's been able to give Crowley something he wanted, and it feels more meaningful because of it. It feels - it feels magnificent, every grasp of the demon's hands, every breathy murmur of his name - or the only endearment he's ever known. Aziraphale feels alive, and hungry and deeply loved.

"Tell me something you thought of, when you thought of us?" He wants to give, he wants to give Crowley so much.

"Thought of everything at least once," Crowley tells him with a groan. "Six thousand years is a long time. Didn't know what you'd like."

Everything, Aziraphale thinks, for you I'll like everything.

"How about we start at the beginning and work our way down the list?" he suggests.

Crowley laughs. "Did you make a list without telling me?" He presses his face into the warmth of Aziraphale's throat. "Bless it, of course you did." 

Aziraphale will neither confirm nor deny whether any such list exists. Though Crowley seems to like the idea, if his noises of mirth and wet kisses are anything to go by, which pleases him immensely. It suggests that he won't be averse to expanded lists, if Aziraphale chooses to make them at some point in the future. This seems a possibility if they're going to make a habit of - of being together.

Crowley squeezes his waist with sharp hands, breathes a soft, intrigued noise against his mouth. 

"I hope you know I'm picturing that now. You at your desk in those little glasses, calligraphy pen all inked up. Jotting down every filthy thing your heart desires."

"There's only ever been one thing my heart desires," Aziraphale says. He means his smile to be teasing, to soften the honesty, to make it feel less overwhelming to say. But Crowley goes very still, eyes full yellow, something vulnerable in the thinness of his mouth. 

"Aziraphale -" He stops, all the breath escaping him, then he leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet - but then abruptly hard and open, something desperate to it. Aziraphale makes quiet, soothing noises into the kiss, winds an arm around the demon's slender waist. Until eventually Crowley's just breathing his name against the side of his face, moustache a prickle when he turns to gently press his mouth to the curve of Aziraphale's jaw. "You know that I - that I always have - never made much of a secret of it."

"I know," Aziraphale tells him, because he does. It's not the sort of thing Crowley can voice - at least, perhaps not yet. But he knows.

Crowley laughs, the long line of his nose pulling across Aziraphale's cheek.

"You're trying to distract me from your list with - with declarations aren't you?" he accuses, though he sounds thrilled rather than chiding.

"Well I certainly succeeded if that was my plan." Aziraphale finds Crowley's foot with his own, and presses them together. The instep under his toes is slightly rough, in a way that suggests scales have spread across the skin while Crowley wasn't paying attention. He finds that he doesn't mind at all. He wants all the secret parts of Crowley, all of them. He wants to know him as well as he knows himself.

"Come on then." Crowley's head tips to one side, and it's such a familiar gesture, even though they're tangled together, in a press of naked skin. It's a bold and exciting new way to hold a conversation for certain. "Show me what you have planned, what's the first indecent thing you wanted from me?"

Aziraphale smiles and reaches down, grasps the back of Crowley's long, bare thighs and pulls him up far enough for their erections to slot together, nudging against the contrasting curves of their stomachs in slow, greedy pushes.

"Hnh - fuck - Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, then smiles as if he regrets nothing at all. But when Aziraphale cups his hands under his buttocks and pulls - Crowley's hand falls to the bed, as if he needs contact with something that isn't Aziraphale, just for a moment. There are small, sharp teeth in his lower lip, and his pupils are stretched desirously wide.

"I confess, I've been wondering what you look like at the height of pleasure for a while now," Aziraphale admits. "I would be very happy if you would indulge me."

"Ugh, you secretly did want me to come all over your thighs, didn't you?" Crowley accuses. His shoulders are freckled and lovely and Aziraphale has not seen close to enough of them. He wants to know what else he's missed, what secrets Crowley has never let him see.

"I never specified an exact area." Aziraphale can't resist the smile, because that certainly does provide a variety of intriguing possibilities.

Crowley gives a breathless laugh. "Aziraphale you can't just throw that out and not specify an area."

Aziraphale laughs with him. It does sound quite indecent.

"Hmm, very remiss of me, here, allow me." The hands that had been drifting lazily and indulgently over the small curve of Crowley's behind slip down to grasp his thighs, to slowly pull them up and apart, until Crowley is straddling him, laughing into his neck and calling him a filthy scoundrel as if Aziraphale doesn't know the word has been out of fashion for fifty years. But the demon obediently sways upright onto his knees, adjusting himself with a hiss, until his slim body is a beautiful stretch of angles and joints, of fine muscle and soft curves of skin over bone. His hair falls fetchingly around his shoulders, cock bobbing gently above the tight swell of his balls. He looks impossibly tempting. Aziraphale will even allow the moustache, he hadn't really been lying before, it does make him look rakish and available, as if he'd acquiesce to any one of Aziraphale's possibly indecent desires. Aziraphale thinks he may have to cultivate some indecent desires. It would be a shame to disappoint Crowley's expectations.

"Oh, look at you, you lovely thing." He wanted to see him at the height of his pleasure, but he thinks that this version of Crowley is close to perfection.

"Is that all you're going to do?" Crowley says, after Aziraphale spends a moment cataloguing every angle and sway of motion. "You put me here after all. Thought you had a plan." There's a cocky sort of tease to the words that Aziraphale knows far too well, though there's no armchair to slouch insouciantly in, no spoon to waggle in his direction, no glasses to raise an eyebrow over. There's just bare skin, and sharp fingers, naked yellow eyes, and the softness of 6000 years of familiarity.

Aziraphale lets his hands slide on Crowley's warm thighs, dragging hair the wrong way, thumbs indulging in the dip where leg becomes pelvis. Which draws brief, shivering twitches out of the demon in his lap. 

"What would you like, I wonder?" He lets his hands drift higher, to the curve of Crowley's waist, his narrow chest and sensitive nipples, which he makes something of an exploration of, to Crowley's obvious, gasping delight. Before finally sliding down to tentatively touch the jutting length of his cock with gentle, stroking motions. Too dry to be pleasurable, but pointed enough to be a tease. "Tell me."

"Fuck, angel. Anything you want, anything." The tone of Crowley's voice is low and eager, cracked through with threads of desperation as he nudges and rocks into his grip. Aziraphale's own cock is a stiff, reddened weight, the head leaving a fine, tacky smear against his stomach, throbbing in warm anticipation above his tense, heavy balls. It's such an enjoyable sensation, and Aziraphale finds that he'd rather like to indulge it for a while.

Of course, he's less inclined to make Crowley wait. He lets his hand drift back to Crowley's thigh.

"I think I would like to see you touch yourself," he decides. "Would you do that for me?"

Crowley hisses and wastes no time at all pulling the hand that isn't tangled in the sheets to the bobbing length of his cock, catching it and simply squeezing himself for a few seconds. Aziraphale hadn't expected such a swift answer to what had originally barely been a question. Though he can't deny that watching the reaction had been incredibly arousing.

"I see you quite like being told what to do," he teases.

"Shut it," Crowley says, though the words break in a way that proves him right. "Not by anyone else - wouldn't let anyone else - s'just you." He hisses, an appealing flush blooming on his skin. "Maybe. Sometimes. Don't get used to it."

Aziraphale finds himself more than willing to find things for Crowley to do, if that's what he'd like.

"Alright, why don't you conjure yourself something slippery, something nice and warm."

Crowley groans, thighs pulling in briefly at the thought, before they stretch out, and Aziraphale can see the telltale slickness shining between his fingers. 

"Perfect," Aziraphale tells him. "Now start slowly, root to tip, just a few strokes. The way you like it best."

"Fuck, fuck." Crowley does as he's told, pulling up with a short twist at the head, and all the air shakes out of him. "I'm too close to keep this up for long." There's disappointment in the words, but also something sharp and hungry, as if this is exactly what he wants. 

"Of course, darling, I'm not going to tell you to wait, I want to see you. I want to see what you like. Keep going."

Crowley bites down on a curse, teeth dug into his lower lip instead, a strand of hair is caught in the corner of his mouth, the rest untidily pushed back and he looks so dishevelled and so beautiful. Aziraphale wouldn't change a single thing about him. Not one atom.

"That's it, that's perfect, you look so lovely like this. I always knew you would." 

Crowley rocks into him, stops himself with a hiss, other hand gripping tight on his flexing thigh. Aziraphale folds both hands round the hard curves of his hips, gently encourages him to move again - that it's alright to move - while his hand works in jerky, tugging strokes. He watches the slick, flushed head of Crowley's cock slip free and shine from the grip of his oiled fingers, a string of pre-come breaking on every slippery pass of his thumb. Aziraphale has never enjoyed watching something this much before. There are so many places to look, so many touches to memorise, to copy later. The expression on Crowley's face is open and desperate, in a way he's never seen, and Aziraphale loves him so very much.

"You're doing so well. I want you to enjoy it, you deserve to enjoy it. You deserve whatever pace pleases you most. This is just for you. Your pleasure is the most important thing here." Once he starts talking Aziraphale can't stop. He finds honesty very easy suddenly, especially with Crowley's dazed eyes on him, hand working on himself desperately. "That's what's going to please me, that's what will make me happy. You being a magnificent, beautiful thing and touching yourself where I can see it. I've wanted to see it for such a long time."

Crowley gives a low, gasping whine, staring down at him with eyes that are flecked and unique and lovely, pupils swollen to the shape of almonds. His hand stutters before it returns to a rhythm, faster and harder than before. His thighs are twitching, tightening, the long, slender lengths of them pulling in, and Aziraphale slides his hands down to grip their rocking, flexing weight.

"I hope you meant it - fuck, angel - hope you meant it when you said you didn't mind where I came."

Aziraphale finds the hand still curled tight on Crowley's thigh, gives it a gentle tug.

"Fold into me, you beautiful serpent, I want to feel how much you're enjoying this. I want you to show me what it looks like."

"Oh fuck -" Crowley falls forward, free hand flat to the dark sheets, the other working in messy, broken tugs. Until he's simply pushing through his own fingers, and Aziraphale can feel the warm, wet stripes of fluid across his stomach and chest. Crowley gives a low, startled sound of shocked pleasure, eyes fixed on the lines of fresh come on Aziraphale's body, as if he can't believe he was responsible for them. The last few spurts and droplets fall on Aziraphale's own, desperately red erection, and the sensation is exquisitely arousing.

Crowley's still very slowly working himself, giving short, breathless moans as his body shakes him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck, angel." He can't seem to look away, other hand twitching as though it wants to reach out, to smear the lines on him, to press down into that sticky mess. Aziraphale finds himself strangely breathless at the thought.

"There we are." He draws Crowley down, pushes hands into his sweaty hair and kisses his gasping mouth with an urgency that pulls a muffled, breathless laugh out of the demon. "That was lovely. You were lovely." There's a moan into his mouth at the praise. "So beautiful to watch, thank you." Aziraphale can't stop the instinctive nudge of his hips, that jabs his impatient desire into the sticky softness of Crowley's own.

"Did you want me to do something about that, angel?" Crowley asks, when their lips eventually part long enough. He looks dazed and soft and smugly pleased, body flexing liquidly in Aziraphale's grip. As if he'd forgotten how human bones worked. 

Part of Aziraphale would like to indulge in this Crowley a little longer. This relaxed, red-cheeked, post-orgasm version of him that he's never seen before. The familiar ache of unfulfilled desire is a specific, sweet sort of sensation that isn't exactly pain, and the potential of it is always rather exciting. Its ability to stretch out far longer than orgasm. But Crowley looks terribly eager to please him, and he finds that he suddenly doesn't want to disappoint him.

"I think it's your turn to decide what you'd like," Aziraphale offers.

"Think we're doing this the wrong way round," Crowley realises, amused. "Not that I'm complaining."

The demon shifts back a little, buttocks sliding on Aziraphale's solid thighs, before he folds to lay kisses against his chest, the rough prickle of his moustache strangely thrilling. Crowley opens his mouth occasionally, lets his tongue slide out and flatten, then drag upwards in pleasurable sweeps. It takes Aziraphale a second to realise that the demon is cleaning him of his own spend.

"Oh." Aziraphale draws a thigh up to hold Crowley against him, as he indulges himself, pausing at a nipple that tries to dispute his earlier assertion that they weren't sensitive, stopping again at the middle of his breastbone, to breathe his name and dig his small, sharp teeth in, hands already coaxing Aziraphale's solid thighs to open wider.

Perhaps he was a little hasty earlier, when he said he would be happy to hang on this edge forever. Crowley hums amusement, as if he can hear the thought. He's low enough to be a shape between the raised hills of Aziraphale's knees, one hand gently exploring the weight of his balls the other coaxing his stiff cock upright so he can set his mouth around the head, tongue curling and wetting it to his satisfaction in a way that makes Aziraphale's chest drag in air and his thighs tense in sharp delight. It's a visceral, physical pleasure which he struggles to find the words for. 

"Oh," he says again, and has to close his eyes, because the sight is too much. 

But he can still feel everything.

Crowley closes his mouth, sucks gently at the sensitive head, and all the breath punches out of Aziraphale in a groan. His hand is in Crowley's hair, resting, stroking - then gently urging as the demon sinks down, the slick warmth of his mouth pulling him deeper. It's a slow, easy connection, and he's left gasping when Crowley's mouth meets the soft, pale hair at the base. Aziraphale is so deep in him he can feel squeeze of his throat muscles, and the sliding flutter of Crowley's tongue, no longer content to remain human, as it circles and tugs and teases. His body is straining up into the sensation when Crowley draws back, a slow slide that leaves the soaking length of Aziraphale's cock bare, jutting from his body and flushed a desperate, greedy red. Crowley's mouth and tongue work at the head, where liquid beads and is licked away just as quickly. Before the demon is sinking all the way back down, working a steady rhythm that seems designed to push him unstoppably towards completion.

"Crowley, Crowley." Aziraphale has to look, has to - and is almost immediately undone by sight of Crowley's mouth around him, the wet push of his lips stretched and filthy. His eyes are wide open and filled completely with yellow, pupils fixed on him. His free hand is stretched down his own body, clearly working himself again in slow, indulgent strokes, as his mouth takes Aziraphale in far enough that his throat opens, and then squeezes down on him again.

Aziraphale pushes up with his hips - can't help it - it's a eager nudge of movement that seems to encourage Crowley into something smoother and faster, a quick slide and push across his tongue and down his throat. Drawing back enough that Aziraphale's cock almost slips free, left to glisten wetly while Crowley sucks the head, and he only takes it down again when Aziraphale moans a plea and squeezes the hand in his hair shut. Crowley garbles a moan around him, and Aziraphale learns something else wonderfully new about Crowley. Such a beautiful voyage of discovery this is becoming. 

He lets his fingers thread in the fall of red strands, encouraging every sink and retreat with gentle movements. Crowley seems to approve, eyes catching and holding Aziraphale's. His lips, moustache and chin are slick and wet, in a way that looks messy and real and so painfully erotic that it surprises Crowley's name out of him. He can feel orgasm rapidly approaching, and it seems only polite to warn the demon thoroughly taking him to pieces.

"Crowley, I'm close, please -" The rest cracks into a gasp. Crowley hums acknowledgement, or possibly reassurance, and it does interesting and delightful things to Aziraphale's insides, leaves him groaning praise through a particularly enthusiastic moment of suction. Until the wet, twisting squeeze of Crowley's tongue around his cock leaves him briefly entirely incoherent.

He pulls his thighs in when he feels the first hints of desperation, fingers tugging gently at Crowley's hair, while his mouth pulls an ache of bliss out of him. He feels the suction gentle, that tight, slippery warmth simply holding him as he spills across his tongue and down his throat. The pleasure of it leaves him breathless, every muscle pulled tight. He feels the rolling swallows that squeeze his sensitive length, and then Crowley's own arm stops, before giving a series of slow, shaky jerks, and then the demon groans around him, in a way that's so indicative of orgasm that Aziraphale tries to push impossibly deeper. To be a messy, connected chain of pleasure is a beautiful thing, but to be that with Crowley is exquisite. 

Crowley's mouth falls open, enough that Aziraphale's cock slips free, leaves a few weak pulses of come across Crowley's chin, moustache and cheek, much to his surprised amusement - and judging by the way he groans and squeezes his softening dick, more than a little arousal.

Aziraphale pulls him up the bed, kisses his slick mouth, uncaring at the resulting smear of his own semen. Crowley kisses him back, far harder and more thoroughly than he's expecting. They find themselves tangled up, laughing breathlessly, both of them soft and satisfied.

"M'gonna have to miracle us clean," Crowley decides. He won't stop smiling, but Aziraphale is loath to point it out. "We're a mess."

"I don't care, it was wonderful. I enjoyed every moment of it," Aziraphale decides. "How could I not? Everything is always better with you." 

Crowley grunts agreement, winds an arm around his waist and presses his sticky face into the warm bend of Aziraphale's neck.

"And I'm keeping the calendar," Aziraphale tells him.

"Course you are," Crowley agrees, and threads their legs together. "Now shush, very important part of a new relationship is the sleeping together."

Oh, what a lovely thought. Aziraphale spares a brief miracle to leave them clean, and to retrieve the sheet from beneath them to rest over their slowly cooling bodies.

"Don't go anywhere without waking me," Crowley says quietly.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Aziraphale tells him, and pulls him in tight.

**Author's Note:**

> There is now [artwork](https://sungmee.tumblr.com/post/624187030001287168/this-was-drawn-earlier-this-month) of Anthony 'Tony' Crowley's July 1976 calendar pose. Done by the very talented sungmee.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Many Faces Of You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616197) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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